


Your Colors

by oshare_banchou



Series: I Make My Own Luck [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Romance, Saoirse Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oshare_banchou/pseuds/oshare_banchou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Better late than never.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Colors

     Hawke doesn’t waste a moment. The kiss is demanding, possessive even, from the very moment the rogue tangles a gloved hand in Fenris’s hair, wraps the other low about his waist, and draws him close. The air is tinged with the scents of sweat and leather and pine, remnants of a trek up Sundermount clinging to their skin and clothes.

     Hawke’s tongue plunges deep into Fenris’s mouth, and this time, a not-unpleasant shiver of anticipation sparks up the elf’s spine as the lyrium stirs beneath his skin. Hawke shuffles forward until Fenris’s back meets the wall, and Fenris surprises himself by responding in kind, working one long leg between Hawke’s own and _grinding_ shamelessly.

     The motion catches Hawke off guard, culling a throaty groan from him that rumbles against the roof of Fenris’s mouth.

     “Eager, are we?” Hawke quips. His laughter is warm and rich, like smooth velvet pressed flush against Fenris’s lips.

     “It’s been far too long, Hawke,” Fenris snaps, impatience coloring his tone until it verges on accusatory, as if _Hawke_ is the one to blame for three years squandered in doubt and regret, desire and shame. Fenris checks himself then, instinctively withdrawing a pace for fear of overstepping his bounds and losing him again. _Might it be forever, this time?_

     “Hawke, I—” Fenris falters, unfamiliar with the whisper of indecision that twists in his gut.

     But Hawke bridges the distance between them in an instant.

     “‘Far too long’?” Hawke echoes. He pauses long enough to coax Fenris’s gaze to meet his own with the gentle trace of a finger along the elf’s jawline.

     “You’ll find no argument here,” Hawke continues with a wry, wistful smile. He ducks to hush his next words into Fenris’s ear, grazing the skin there with a nip of his teeth. “Every night, Fenris. _Every night—_ ”

     One wandering hand trails down the curve of Fenris’s back to brush between his thighs, and while Fenris bucks forward to rut against Hawke, the elf can’t help but think that was a decidedly underhanded move. Even for a rogue.

     But Fenris has no qualms about playing dirty. He takes to rocking his hips in slow, teasing circles, until Hawke’s breathing quickens and Fenris can tell he is dangerously close to the edge.

     Still, Hawke refuses to go down without a fight, and he braces one hand against the wall, gathering his last scraps of composure. “Every night, I would lie awake, yearning to hear your voice. When I dreamt, I saw you lying next to me, felt the warmth of your skin on mine.”

     Fenris smirks into a kiss. The sentiments are entirely mutual.

     “And now,” Hawke says, mirroring Fenris’s smirk, “we have all the time in the world—well, at least until Meredith and Orsino butt heads long enough to realize that I’m probably doing more harm than good in this damned city.”

     Fenris chuckles, a deep, rough-hewn rumble. “I, for one, am surprised they haven’t already realized that to be the case.”

     Hawke scoffs in mock indignation. “You wound me, good ser. But seeing as they’re still at loggerheads with one another, perhaps that has bought us a reprieve. Which prompts the question: Just _what_ in Thedas are we going to do with ourselves and our newfound liberty?”

     “I have a few ideas,” Fenris all but growls, sliding a hand up the nape of Hawke’s neck and drawing him forward, closer, until their bodies are completely intertwined. One of the elf’s gauntleted fingers, the metal filed to a talon’s point, raises a long welt behind Hawke’s left ear as it rakes across the skin.

     Hawke gasps, screwing his eyes shut for a moment until the hot wash of pain fades to a dull burn.

     Apologies fall still on Fenris’s lips when their eyes lock again, for Hawke’s gaze is alight with arousal and mischief, a promise of wickedness to come.

     “Armor off. Now.”

     Hawke pounces, his fingers already making short work of the leather straps of Fenris’s breastplate before the elf can mutter, “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "pounce".


End file.
